Smell
by clockwise witness
Summary: Set in Bastogne, Roe reflects on the smell of the broken body lying at his feet, and compares it with the scents from his past. Short drabble, written spontaneously for lack of anything better to do. Prompt: #036: Smell


**Title: **Smell

**Author: **clockwise witness

**Warnings: **Graphic content; gore.

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Set in Bastogne, Roe reflects on the smell of the broken body lying at his feet, and compares it with the scents from his past. Short drabble, written spontaneously for lack of anything better to do. [Prompt: #036: Smell]

**Disclaimer:** _This is merely a ficlet written up by a loyal fan; I in no way own or am connected with the Band of Brothers miniseries, and it does not at all pertain to the real life soldiers of Easy Company._

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Roe thinks it was the smell that got to him first.

That smell, of gunpowder, and ash, and blood, and charred flesh and fabric. It was not the sight of his broken comrade, crippled and writhing on the ground with a hole in his chest. A hole so dark and gaping it was as if the wound itself was screaming in pain. No, it was the _smell_ to knock him back, bring the bile to his throat; make him stumble on his feet as if he himself had been the one who was blown away by that mortar blast.

It hits him so hard that suddenly all he can think about is Mardi Gras. The first night of Mardi Gras, when he's shorter and younger and full of anticipation for the evening ahead. The smells hit him _then_, too, in powerful waves of unfamiliarity. Small hands push past the crowd – _innocent hands_, he thinks;_ unbloodied, untarnished hands yet untouched by callouses and the horrors of war – _weaving his way through like he knows exactly where he needs to be. It's hard at first, but he stands his ground when an unaware party nudges him to the side or steps on his toes in the chaos. _Beautiful chaos_. Tongue prods at his lip and through the heavy metallic liquid, he can taste the sweat coating his skin. The salt washes over his tongue, and suddenly the scent of sweat in the air is all the more noticeable. It drips down backs to soak through shirts, runs down their foreheads and necks, and gathers embarrassingly in the underarms of it's patrons. But no one seems to care about the hot, sticky night when there's fun to be had. Roe throws a look over his shoulder. He shouldn't be straying so far from the watching eyes of his grandmother, but the crowd has long since blocked what little pathway there was back and he's too far in to turn around now. He can smell lamb – someone's_ burned _it_ –_ filling the air with heavy smoke. It laces the air so deeply he can barely breathe, but the juicy meat smells so good he can not bring himself to care.

Later, when his grandmother pulls him back to the house scolding his absence but secretly grinning at the stories her grandchild recants, all that stands out in Roe's mind are the wonderful, wonderful smells.

But this is not Mardi Gras. Laughter is replaced by screams for their medic, for their _lives_, and bullets jet past his face as the flimsy white arm band, clad with an almost unnoticeable red cross, is all but ignored by the enemy's barrage. The sweat is not from the heat but the fear as they run for their lives and hide in their foxholes. The blood he tastes now is not his own, and the smoke is not sweet and juicy, but thick and black and so dense it covers Bastogne's skies almost completely.

The smell is still there. Burned meat; burned flesh. Roe wonders for a moment why someone is cooking lamb kabobs in the middle of a damned war, and then he remembers. He remembers the soldier lying at his feet, scrambling to stop the bleeding as his life slips away, and he thinks he should do something. The man is so far gone; it's too late, but he _needs _to do something – anything! Grabbing at the near-empty bag which hangs from his shoulder, Roe kneels and administers the revolting wound. Bones are visible, peeking out of the muscle and fat, and he can see organs and intestines torn and shredded through the pool of blood. It's unnatural now. Inhuman. Morphine pierces it's side, eyes close, nose scrunched at the smell. That burned, bloody smell.

The smell which stays with him through Bastogne, and Foy, and past the war. The smell which he catches from time to time as he walks down the street or lays in bed at night and it all comes flooding back. And he knows now, it is not the scent of a happy, bustling crowd gathering eagerly in line for juicy sticks of lamb, but the burning skin of someone he could not save.

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**A/N:** It's a horribly boring title – I know. If anyone can think up something better, I'm open to hearing it. As I mentioned earlier, this is just a short drabble which I typed up early in the morning when I couldn't sleep and had nothing better to do. I'm not quite sure how to feel about my first Doc Roe fic being so angsty and depressing... Incidentally, this is my very first time posting any of my stories to the internet, let alone FF, and it's got my heart pounding... I certainly wouldn't mind some comments and reviews pertaining to my first public story. Criticism is also appreciated and taken to heart :]

Thanks for reading!


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